


Captive

by CasusFere



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dismemberment, First Aid is a badass, Psychological Torture, Torture, Vortex being Vortex, pacifist does not mean weak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasusFere/pseuds/CasusFere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex indulges his fascination with Autobot medics. First Aid refuses to be broken. Mind the warnings</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
“Shh, no need to scream,” Vortex crooned as his captive’s optics flickered with light, placing a finger against First Aid’s lips. The battlemask and visor were on the floor in the middle of the warehouse, next to a small shipping crate and a portable comm system. He hadn’t been able to resist removing them, not wanting to miss the slightest twinge or gasp on that oh-so-beautiful face. “That’s it.”

First Aid made a soft noise, a grunt of pain as he twitched, starting to lift his head. “What-” he started, glossa flicking out to his lips. “What happened?” he asked asked as his optics cycled, clearly not focusing yet.

Vortex had to giggle. He leaned forward, nuzzling his own battlemask against the side of First Aid’s helm. The Autobot was so small; Vortex was half-crouched next to the slanted beams he’d ripped out of the building supports and glued into a makeshift frame slanted against the wall. The frame held his captive off the ground at a reclining angle that gave Vortex comfortable access to everything he wanted. The rough wood was crude but effective. “Think,” he whispered into First Aid’s audio. “Try to remember.” He watched the horror cross the medic’s face as recognition and realization dawned, sending a thrill through him that made the fuel in his lines tingle.

“You won’t get away with this,” First Aid said harshly, expression hardening. From fear to shut out in the space of two pump beats, Vortex marvelled. That had to be a record. Maybe there was more to the Protectobot medic than pretty hands and a fear of his own gun. Behind his battle mask, he grinned. This was going to be even more fun than he’d thought.

“You won’t get away with this!” Vortex mocked, pitching his voice high and shrill. “My friends will come for me!” He laughed out loud. “Frag, I hope so,” he said in his normal drawl. “Which ones do you think will come? That pretty helicopter?” He trailed finger tips down the line of First Aid’s cheekplate. “I wouldn’t mind taking his rotors off.” Vortex paused a beat. “Oh, wait, already did that. Glue pellets and rotor assemblies don’t mix, y’know. He sure didn’t seem to happy when I grabbed you, did he?”

“It doesn’t matter who comes.” First Aid’s voice stayed even, hard but without the angry bravado that Vortex was used to hearing in the “brave” ones.

Vortex pulled back a fraction, studying First Aid curiously. “You don’t care who it is that I’m going to kill in front of you? Why, First Aid! I thought you liked your brothers, but it sounds like you don’t care about them at all!”

First Aid didn’t even flinch. “I have no intention of playing your sick little games.”

“Everyone plays, little medic. It just takes finding the right incentive.” His fingers found the Protectobot’s lips again. “And I’m gonna have _fun_ findin’ yours. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good challenge.” His free hand stroked down First Aid’s arm, the upper part trapped in hardened glue, to take the medic’s wrist. “I like your hands. Have I mentioned that before? All pretty and delicate-”

First Aid jerked his hand out of Vortex’s grip, pulling back as far as the glue and frame behind him would allow, expression turning to a scowl.

Vortex laughed. “And so strong, too.” He hummed to himself. “Such elegance and functionality. Purpose-built. Unique. One of a kind. There was a time that was unheard of, y’know.” He took a step back, turning away from First Aid and reaching for the rifle he’d laid aside. “Too many factories, turning out mass-produced models created from fashion designer’s mock ups. You could tell when and where someone was built, but it didn’t tell you much about _why._ ” He checked the clip in his rifle. “You, now...”

First Aid tugged at his glued limbs, trying to find the leverage to break free.

“I’m curious,” Vortex said casually, tapping fingers against the grip of his rifle watching First Aid over his shoulder. “Are you living up to all those expectations they built you with?”

“I don’t have any inner neurosis about not being ‘good enough’ for them, if that’s what you’re fishing for,” First Aid said coolly.

“Huh.” Vortex turned to face him fully again, rotors flicking. “You’re tougher than you seem.”

First Aid lifted his chin, meeting the visored gaze without flinching. “Being a pacifist doesn’t make me weak, Decepticon.”

“This from someone to scared to pick up a weapon,” Vortex said lightly, stepping closer. “I guess all cowards have to justify it somehow. Just look at Swindle-”

“I’m not a coward,” First Aid said sharply.

Triumph gleamed in Vortex’s optics, hidden behind the visor. “Oh?” Deliberate disbelief colored his tone. “Gonna prove that for me?”

“Give me your weapon and let’s find out.”

“Giving up on your little morals already?” Vortex asked curiously.

“No. I don’t need to, because _you_ won’t do it. The very thought of being unarmed in front of an enemy terrifies you.” First Aid’s stare never wavered. “So who is the coward, really?”

Vortex was silent for a long moment, considering him, the rifle barrel tapping idly against his palm. “You may have a point there.” He shrugged his rotors. “Meh, who cares.” He grabbed First Aid’s wrist again, this time clenching tight and using his superior size to twist it to the side, forearm against the frame, gun barrel a hand breadth away. He giggled. “Hold still, now.” Vortex pulled the trigger.

He held tight to First Aid’s arm, keeping it held tightly in the position he wanted until the glue hardened.

Humming again, a cheerful, off-kilter sound, he turned away once he was satisfied that the glue had bonded properly and retrieved his solvent, leisurely cleaning the splatters of glue out of his rifle. “Back home,” he said suddenly, inspecting the barrel. “We modified the medical berths for this sorta thing. Handy things, suspend you in any position for all sorts of interestin’ things. But ever since all of this-” he made a vague motion encompassing the warehouse and possibly the planet itself, “I gotta make do with what I can get, y’know?”

First Aid watched him silently, mouth set in a grim line.

“You’re a quiet one, aintcha?”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“So _brave,_ ” Vortex purred. He set the rifle aside again, reaching out to brush First Aid’s hand with his fingertips. “I like your hands, I mentioned that already.” He giggled when First Aid curled his fingers into a fist, jerking away as much as the glue would allow.

Reaching down, Vortex grabbed a case disturbingly similar in appearance to a field medical kit, dragging it into First Aid’s view. “More improvising,” he said cheerfully, unlatching the case to reveal a mix of medical equipment and a few... other... things. Far more blades than required, medical devices reconfigured until it would be difficult to image a valid clinical purpose for them, and a few things that looked like they came out of an autoparts store on Earth rather than a Cybertronian medical bay. “Not my tools, they took those back before the detention center. But I’ve managed to scrap these together for us.” He gave First Aid’s leg a too-friendly pet. First Aid jerked at the unwelcome, intimate contact.

He selected a small spreader clamp and a narrow blade, inspecting the edge before standing. “You can see alright? Wouldn’t want to obstruct your view of the show.” He laughed again, and First Aid jerked against the glue holding him, but he couldn’t pull far enough away to stop the tool from sliding under the palm plating of his hand, lifting up and locking into place.

“There’s just something about workin’ on a medic,” Vortex told him, even as he held First Aid's balled fist still bending close and sliding the blade into the gap. “I mean, sure, you get to the same place with a layperson, but a medic can really _appreciate_ what I’m doin’.”

First Aid’s optics darted between Vortex’s hands and the far wall, seeming undecided whether it would be worse to watch or look away. His entire body flinched as the tip of the blade bit in.

“See, I don’t need to explain to you what it means that I just severed the main cables that control the extension and flexion of your fingers,” Vortex continued, manually uncurling First Aid’s fingers. The fingers twitched, but with the main cables gone, didn’t have the strength to resist him. He spent a moment stroking the palm and fingers. “And medics always have the nicest hands. Extra relays, more gripping strength, and a whole network of sensors that most mechs don’t have.” His rotors shivered, and his voice dropped to a rough murmur. “And so beautiful...”

“Have you had to do any hand repairs?” he asked curiously, letting go and turning back to his kit. The spreader clamp went back into its slot with a firm click, the narrow blade carefully cleaned and replaced as well, as neat and careful as anything Ratchet did. Vortex hummed to himself, rotors twitching, before selecting a small box of tiny line clamps and a different blade. “Well?” he asked, cocking his head at First Aid.

First Aid started slightly, only then seeming to realize he’d been asked a question. “Ah... not alone. I assisted Ratchet once with a strut replacement.”

“Shame.” Vortex turned his attention back to the hand in front of him. “The hand has the most sensors of anywhere in a Cybertronian, body, did you know that? Of course you did, basic anatomy, right?”

First Aid nodded warily.

“And those who are required to preform fine free-hand work tend to have even more sensors,” he went on. He set the little box of clamps on a handy spot of the makeshift frame. “Engineers, medics, and interrogators, notably.”

“I fail to see your point,” First Aid said, with only the faintest uneven tremble in his voice betraying that he did, in fact, see exactly where this was going.

“The point,” Vortex said cheerfully. “Is that this is going to hurt.” With that, he took the hand again, and sliced a line down the center of First Aid’s palm.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Aid refuses to break.

  
Pain blazed through his processors, making it hard to focus on anything. Damage reports demanded his attention, but he couldn’t make the words make sense. Automatic processes worked to limit the sensory input and lesson the intensity until it was localized enough for him to process it.

Vortex was humming to himself, bent over First Aid’s hand, scalpel held loosely in his own. The blade flashed light into First Aid’s optics as he watched Vortex turn the scalpel, carefully severing the connections holding the plating of his palm to the rest of the hand.

“Stop,” First Aid whispered hoarsely, before he could stop himself.

“Gotta come off before we can move on to the fun bits,” Vortex said cheerfully, peeling back the plating. The dampened sensory input made the scene more surreal, like watching a grotesque horror movie with himself as the main character.

“It’s very important to take it slowly,” Vortex told him, carefully teasing the last of the thin plating off the sensor connectors, each twitch a stabbing pain through First Aid’s hand. “Do it right the first time, y’know? Interrogation is like surgery like that. Don’t get a second chance if you get hasty and slice right through the important bits.” He flicked the scalpel in front of First Aid’s optics. “Vip. He’s a goner.” Vortex laughed, that off-kilter giggle that made First Aid shrink back despite himself.

“Surgery is about saving lives,” First Aid corrected him. “What you do is butchery.”

Vortex pointed the scalpel at him. “The similarity is in method, not motive, little bot.” He turned his attention back to the hand in front of him. “Medics have to dismantle pieces to make repairs all the time.” He glanced back, waggling a rotor in First Aid’s face. “The difference is that _I’m_ having fun.”

“Because the sheer lack of necessity or concern is just not worth mentioning,” First Aid said through gritted denta as Vortex peeled his fingers back again, reactivating the pain sensors in the exposed circuitry of his palm.

“Exactly!” Vortex beamed at him, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm. “So, my little medical-bot, what’s the next step in dismantling the structure of a hand?”

“Shutting off the sensory input from the affected body part,” First Aid said shortly.

Vortex affected shock. “You would remove the plating before shutting off sensory input? First Aid! That’s just... sadistic.” The last word was purred.

“Go frag yourself,” First Aid snapped. “Just get it over with.”

Vortex tsked. “And here I thought I’d already covered how important it was to take our time. Didn’t Ratchet teach you anything?”

First Aid let his head fall back against the frame and offlined his optics, refusing to rise to Vortex’s bait.

“Optics on,” Vortex said, a harsh note to his normally maniacally cheerful tone.

First Aid didn’t answer, turning his face away from Vortex. If he couldn’t fight back physically, he’d be fragged if he was going to play along with the Combaticon’s sick games.

A hand grabbed his chin roughly and forced his head back around, neck cables popping from the strain. “Optics on,” Vortex growled. “On, or I’ll take them out.”

“Kind of counter productive, don’t you think?” First Aid said, keeping his optics off in a show of passive defiance.

Vortex laughed. “Just remember, I gave you an option.” He lowered his voice, whispering into First Aid’s audios, “Try not to squirm.”

The tip of the scalpel bit into the flexible plating at the edge of his right optic, dragging outward. First Aid tried to jerk back, but the hand on his chin had him pinned tightly against the frame behind him.

“First, outer casing ring,” Vortex said softly, and the scalpel moved, sending pain shooting through his optic and damage reports flashing on his HUD. There was a soft tink as Vortex set something down. First Aid could feel hot fluid running down the side of his face, and it was all he could do to not give Vortex the satisfaction of a whimper. “Forward lens,” Vortex continued, twisting the glass and popping it free.

First Aid made a choked noise. “Shh,” Vortex, said, pressing a fluid-splattered finger to his lips. “We’ve barely started-” The hand moved, gently pulling the facial plating away from the optic to get better access.

First Aid jerked his head, hard, the bleeding fluids slicking Vortex’s fingers and allowing him to pull out of the helicopter’s grasp. Pain flooded through his processors, leaving him limp and gasping.

Vortex was tsking at him when the sensor dampening cleared his processor enough to focus. “See what you did? You ruined it.” The hand grabbed his face again, pulling his chin up for inspection.

First Aid waited through a haze of pain for Vortex to start again, but the helicopter let go and moved away. Reluctantly, he let his good optic come back online. Vortex was carefully cleaning lubricant and energon from a small oval of glass that a numb part of First Aid’s mind recognized as the outer lens of his optic.

“Deciding to behave?” Vortex asked without looking up. He set the oval aside and turned back. “You really should listen when I try to tell you something, First Aid. It’s rude to ignore people when they’re trying to help you.”

“You’re...” First Aid paused, cycling air and regaining control of himself. Frag, sensor dampening or not, his face and hand were points of blazing agony. “You’re not trying to help anyone.”

“Well sure, if you wanna take everything _literally,_ ” Vortex said, back to the easy, cheerfully sadistic tone, all traces of anger gone as if they had never been there. He picked up the cleaning cloth and moved back to First Aid’s injured and exposed hand. Humming to himself, he carefully wiped up what fluids had bled out of the hand despite the line clamps, ignoring the strained noises First Aid made as he worked. “There we go. All better.” He deftly snapped more clamps into place, cutting off the flow of lubricant and fluids to First Aid’s fingers. “Let’s get the rest of all this pesky plating off so we can get to the fun parts, eh?”

First Aid couldn’t hold back a whimper as Vortex began to cut.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue comes, but are they too late?

  
“Doc?” Streetwise called, stepping into the medbay, a brown-paper package tucked under one arm. He glanced around, taking in the exceedingly clean tools and berths with a worried frown.

“I’m here, Streetwise,” Ratchet called back, stepping into the main room. “What do you need? How is Blades?”

“Climbing the walls,” Streetwise said. He shook his head. “He’s frustrated. Wants to be out there looking.” He managed a lopsided smile. “Told him that he isn’t going to be much help if his rotors pop off at a few hundred feet, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it.”

“It’s hard,” Ratchet said with a sigh, “Being the stuck waiting while others search. How are you holding up?”

“Worried,” Streetwise admitted, optics troubled. “I want my brother back, but pacing’s not helping, so I’ve been trying to make myself useful.” He looked pointedly at the cleaning rag and drill in Ratchet’s hands. “It helps to have something to do.”

Ratchet followed his gaze, then made an embarrassed cough, setting both rag and tool aside. “Yes, it does,” he agreed.

“A package came in,” Streetwise said, holding the box out. “Addressed to the medbay, marked ’extremely urgent.’ So I volunteered to bring it down.”

Ratchet took it, turning the label to face him. “Probably test material for Perceptor to run,” he said. “Or something Wheeljack asked for, though that usually goes directly to him...” He trailed off, carefully removing the paper and unsnapping the latches on the shipping crate underneath. “If you’re still looking for busywork, I’m sure I can come up with some-” he broke off, cooling fans going still.

“What is it?” Streetwise asked, alarmed. He stepped closer, peering in to see what it was that had got such a reaction from Ratchet.

Ratchet didn’t answer, reaching a trembling hand into the box, brushing fingertips down smooth Cybertronian metal. “Go get Prowl,” he said finally.

“What is that?” Streetwise asked. “Is it something to do with First Aid? Ratchet?”

“Go get Prowl,” Ratchet repeated, voice steadying.

Streetwise hesitated, torn between finding out what was happening and obeying.

“Now, Streetwise!”

Streetwise turned and ran.

x-x-x

“Tell me that isn’t what it looks like,” Prowl said grimly as he strode into the medbay, Wheeljack on his heels.

“I really wish I could,” Ratchet answered, carefully setting the finger strut next to the others, keeping his optics down, avoiding Wheeljack. If he saw what he was feeling mirrored in Wheeljack’s expression, he’d lose the tight grip he had on his composure.

“I know this is hard,” Prowl said, stepping closer. “But we need any clue we can gain from this. The smallest thing may tell us where and how First Aid is being held.”

Ratchet’s grip on the edge of the shipping container tightened. Didn’t Prowl think he was aware of that? “I know,” he said sharply. “The outer wrapping is in a bag behind you. Maybe Perceptor can find something.”

“I’ll take it,” Wheeljack said hastily. He paused at the door, bag in hand. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Prowl hesitated. “Ratchet,” he said in a gentle tone that Ratchet wasn’t used to hearing from him, “You have always had a very close relationship with First Aid-”

“My judgement is not impaired,” Ratchet snapped.

Prowl looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I am merely suggesting that it might be beneficial to have Hoist finish the examination.”

“No!” Ratchet vented air, trying to control the trembling in his hands. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “I’m the chief medical officer. I’ll finish it.”

Seeming almost relieved to give in, Prowl nodded briskly. “Very well. Is there anything you can tell me so far?”

“A great deal, most of it horrifying and very little useful,” Ratchet sighed.

“The smallest detail may prove the crucial one,” Prowl told him.

Irritation and frustrated anger flared. “I fail to see how the type and size of scalpel used could have _any_ bearing on getting First Aid back!”

“Perhaps not,” Prowl said, unfazed by the anger. “But is there anything that can give you a hint to First Aid’s condition?”

Ratchet forced himself to let go of the shipping container before it cracked in his hands. “He’s alive,” he said quietly. “At least, he was when the hand was removed.” He motioned to the lubricant tubes laid out next to the struts. “Each line shows marks from line clamps. If...” His voice shook, and he had to stop to gather himself. “If he was deactivated, there wouldn’t be enough pressure in the lines to need the clamps.”

“That’s something, at least,” Prowl said with surprising gentleness. “Keep me informed, Ratchet.”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said hoarsely. “Will do, Prowl.”

It wasn’t until after the door hissed closed behind Prowl that he could bring himself to reach back into the crate and carefully lift out the next piece, a section of flexible palm plating, feeling so cold and dead - it shouldn’t feel any different than an unused part, but somehow, it did. His pumps clenched as he looked down at it, slowly turning it over... and stopping short. A series of numbers had been scrawled across the plating - a comm frequency. Under the numbers in tiny, cramped handwriting - _tell no one or he dies._

Ratchet stared at the numbers and wondered what the frag he was supposed to do now.

x-x-x

“Took you long enough,” a voice answered Ratchet immediately, heavily accented with Kaon twang and sadistic cheer. “I was startin’ to think y’all didn’t like my present.”

“I didn’t,” Ratchet growled.

“Aw,” Vortex affected a whine. “I’ll do better next time, Boss, I promise!”

Ratchet’s fingers twitched. First Aid called him “boss.” _It’s a cheap trick,_ he reminded himself. _He’s trying to push your buttons, get you off guard, get you to act rashly._ “What do you want, Vortex?”

“Want? Me?” Vortex laughed. “I already got what I wanted, Boss. I just thought I’d be nice, see if you wanted the rest back, but if you don’t want it...”

“No games,” Ratchet snapped. “Where’s First Aid?”

“But I _like_ games! I got one all ready for you, too. You want what’s left of the little medic-bot - why’d you make him so pretty, anyway? I really just couldn’t help myself, he’s just so... so... soft and _pretty_...” His voice changed as he spoke, lowering to a rough croon.

Ratchet’s tanks churned, and he couldn’t help but imagine Vortex looming over a helpless and terrified First Aid, speaking to him in that same hideous caressing purr. “How do I know he’s still alive?” he said sharply, trying to drag the Decepticon back to a safer ground.

“Hm? Oh, didn’t you wanna talk to him?” The radio clicked and hissed, then Vortex’s voice came back, more distant on his external comm. “Wakey, wakey, Aidy! Daddy wants to talk to you...”

There was a soft groan that made Ratchet’s spark ache.

“There ya go. Come on, Aidy, tell Ratchet all about the fun we’ve been having. Don’t worry about me, I can wait.”

_And hang on every word, the sadistic fragger,_ Ratchet thought angrily. He pulled air in his intakes, trying to steady himself before he spoke.

“No.” First Aid’s voice broke in before he could.

“No?” Vortex repeated, curious.

“I told you,” First Aid said, voice tired and pained but unshakable. “I’m not going to play your games.”

Vortex laughed in delight. “I love this little bot! Isn’t he so cute?”

The comment was directed to Ratchet, but First Aid answered anyway, flat and hard and final. “No.”

“Hang in there, Aid,” Ratchet said quietly. “I’m coming for you.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what I was gonna say before you got me distracted with Aidy’s pretty little face,” Vortex broke in cheerfully. “I’m perfectly willing to give him back - but only to you.” Vortex’s voice turned dark. “If you fail to show, or I spot so much as an Autobot tire track, he dies and I mail you back the pieces.”

He’d expected no less. “I get it. Where and when?”

Vortex told him the coordinates, and the comm went dead.

_x-x-x_

The air was hot and still as Ratchet approached the old storage barn. His scanners registered one Cybertronian inside - too small for Vortex, and he could only hope it was First Aid.

_Nothing like walking into a trap to get the fuel-pump going,_ he thought wryly. A soft rhythmic whump-whump could barely be heard at the edge of his audio range. _And there’s the bastard now._ He waited, but the sound faded again.

He forced his fans to restart and headed for the barn door. Each step felt like a ton of rubble crushing down on him, dragging him down with fear and dread. He unholstered his weapon as he reached the door, all too aware that he could be opening the door to the barrel of Swindle’s latest illegal weapon.

He stepped to the side of the door and pushed it open, wincing when the sliding hinge squealed with rust. _So much for the element of surprise._ He ducked quickly through the door, weapon up, ready to duck out of the way.

Nothing moved inside. The smell of spilled coolant and used lubricants hit his olfactory sensors, an all-too familiar combination. “First Aid?” he called, scanning the interior. One Cybertronian lifeform, behind the tangle of fallen beams.

“Ratchet?” First Aid’s voice was raspier than he could ever remember hearing it, but it was undeniably him.

“Thank Primus!” He holstered his weapon and made his way around the tangle, a clinical detached part of him noting the drying pools of fluids, spreading out below a set of beams wedged tightly to the wall. _Not wedged,_ he realized suddenly. _Glued._

And huddled next to those beams, First Aid, curled in on himself and shivering.

“Aid?” _Fluid loss, shock,_ the clinical side assessed, even as he reached for First Aid.

First Aid jumped at the touch. “Ratchet? Is that really you?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice reassuring and even. Outside, he could hear the rhythmic sound of rotors again. “Come on, we need to get you out of here-” he faltered as First Aid lifted his head. Ragged, empty sockets where First Aid’s gentle optics should be- _I’m going to kill that fragger._

“You have to get out of here,” First Aid rasped. “It’s a trap-”

“I know,” Ratchet managed. “But I’m not leaving without you.”

“I can’t transform, and you need to go now, before he gets back!” First Aid moved, as if to grab for Ratchet’s arm. Vortex hadn’t just taken the one hand, Ratchet saw with a sort of numb horror, he’d taken both.

“We’re leaving together,” Ratchet said fiercely. “No arguing.”

A heavy thump outside told him that they’d run out of time.

“Aw, ain’t this cute!” Vortex blocked the doorway, wrist-mounted lasers trained on the medics. “So nice of ya to answer my invitation. Now, if ya wouldn’t mind puttin’ the gun on the box right over there, I won’t feel the sudden need to shoot your little friend in front of you.”

Ratchet could feel First Aid’s vents hitch. “I’m sorry,” First Aid whispered. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault. You shouldn’t have come-”

Ratchet put a finger to First Aid’s lips to silence him. “Stop it,” he said gently. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“So sweet,” Vortex cackled, head turning to watch Ratchet put the gun down, but keeping the lasers trained on First Aid until Ratchet had moved back to the injured mech. “There’s just something about medics, y’know,” he mused, half-turning to pull the door closed behind him. “So pretty and sweet and just _beggin’_ someone to come take advantage.”

“Two problems with that assessment,” Ratchet said flatly. “First, I didn’t come alone. The others are waiting outside sensor range for the signal I gave them the second I saw First Aid. I figure you have less than ten minutes before this place is swarming with Autobots.”

Vortex cocked his head curiously. “Figured that,” he said. “But interestin’ that you’re riskin’ the little ‘bot by tellin’ me. I did say I’d kill him if you brought ‘em, didn’t I?”

“You won’t,” Ratchet said flatly, standing and stepping towards Vortex. Frag, the Decepticon was big, much bigger than himself, taller than Optimus, even. “Because you’re not done with him. He’s stronger than you, and you couldn’t break him, could you?”

Vortex laughed. “Yet,” he corrected. “I haven’t broke him _yet._ But I will.” He fanned his rotors. “And you, too.” He unspaced his rifle, adjusting the settings.

_Now or never._ Ratchet unspaced his hold-out weapon and fired point-blank, catching the helicopter squarely in the midsection. Vortex yelped in surprise and pain, staggering back into the door and taking it right off its rusting hinge. “Secondly, I carry more than one weapon, fragger,” he growled, and fired again.

Vortex scrambled up and out of his line of sight. “Ha! I think I like you!” he called from around the side of the building.

“The feeling’s not mutual,” Ratchet growled. The rumble of approaching jet engines made him smirk. “You know that ten minutes you had? That wasn’t factoring in the Aerials. I figure it more like ten seconds for them.”

Vortex swore, and took off in a flurry of rotors.

“We got a visual, Ratchet,” Silverbolt’s voice came over the comm. “We’re in pursuit. Are you okay down there?” Ratchet could tell he wanted to ask about First Aid, but was restraining himself. He was just as glad - what could he say?

“We’re secure,” he said instead. “Get him, Silverbolt.”

“Roger that.”

Ratchet crouched down by First Aid, reaching out to pull the younger mech into his arms. “Come on, Aid. Let’s go home.”  



End file.
